


Three Is Not a Crowd

by tea_tales_and_whales



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Unintentional feels, weirdly codependent traitorous dickbags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 07:45:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1502378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_tales_and_whales/pseuds/tea_tales_and_whales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It shouldn't work - a disgraced admiral, a drunkard aristocrat, and a conniving pious overseer working to overthrow a corrupt illegitimate regime - but, against all odds, it does. They start a conspiracy to depose a paranoid despot and restore a motherless girl to her stolen throne, collecting pieces about them until all that’s left is the rook sitting pretty in Coldridge. It’s not so strange that once they find themselves all lying in this bed they've made together - considering how their hands are all equally stained with treason - that they start to fool around in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Is Not a Crowd

**Author's Note:**

> There is not nearly enough Loyalist threesome porn between this lot. I decided to remedy that. Sort of.

The former Lord Protector has been gone for a few hours now - off upriver to the Distillery District presumably to deal death as other men parse their wares in the natural fashion of assassins, Treavor assumes - sitting hunched like a giant crow at rest, wings folded, in Samuel’s boat. However, this agitated waiting isn’t what drives Treavor out of the Hound Pits and into the steady rain. The admiral’s increasingly fevered pacing does the trick instead. Treavor, finally having had enough, begs leave with the excuse of needing a cigarette. He fends off Wallace who offers to accompany him.

He doesn’t escape into the yard behind the pub. That would be foolish. Once there, Treavor would only occupy himself with staring out over the Wrenhaven, going tense and goose-pimply at every sound echoing across the steely waters, every imagined shape approaching the shore from out of the dark. He also doesn’t relish the likely company of Joplin, hunched over working on some contraption or another, inquiring after random particulars in that odd stilted way of speaking he has. In any case, there isn’t anywhere sheltered to stand in the yard.

So Treavor stands in the street in front of the Hound Pits instead, takes cover in the space under the overhang which sobs clackingly onto the pavement, and lights a cigarette. Inhaling deeply, the bottle of whiskey in his breast pocket presses against his chest and he momentarily thirsts for a drink of it, but he remembers there’s already wine enough on his tongue and he resists. The whiskey he must keep for - later.

Besides, without Havelock’s pacing to goad him into the same fretful worry from which the older man pretends not to suffer, he feels better about not having to take bountiful swallows of a rather plain Tyvian red to soothe his nerves.

_Damn Martin to the Void - what kind of blasted idiot -_

Treavor exhales raspily, takes another deep drag even before all the smoke is done curling from his lungs.

It could have all been so easily avoided, this still, measured kind of panic that seethes under his skin until it threatens to consume him, if Martin hadn’t been so fucking stupid and just pinned Attano’s escape from Coldridge on another damned overseer when Campbell came to him with half-baked accusations! Only he hadn’t, had he. He’d taken the fall - and another should be in his place, someone less important, not nearly as vital to the cause, to _them_ \- and now he’s in the Holger stocks, or even elsewhere if their informants aren’t fully up to date - under the Abbey where the walls of those cavernous chambers echo silently with the screams of a thousand heretics, or Campbell’s interrogation room with its viscous stains on the floor - subject to far worse tortures than chafing shackles.

Cigarette all burned up with the vigour of his smoking, Treavor tosses the butt to the ground and grinds it out viciously under his boot, lights another. He stares out at the rain-washed street, blearily takes in the abandoned shops and houses, their windows grim and lightless like the eyes of the dead.

Treavor isn’t a faithful man, not by any means. The scriptures don’t occupy his soul the way they do Martin’s - because for all that Martin’s the tactician, he’s also the faithful man, the one who believes in their success with naught but cold, stark conviction - but nevertheless Treavor prays. He prays as he hasn’t done since he was a child, shaking in darkened corners while his brothers prowled through the manor baying for his blood -

\- _because it’s not supposed to be like this_. Martin isn’t bloody supposed to be caught and held captive by his own sanctimonious brethren, on his knees with the proverbial axe hanging, ready to drop, over the back of his neck. He’s supposed to be with them at the Hound Pits, safe and dry and lending his voice to the plans they've hatched in secrecy. They’re in this together - all three of them. They can function apart, of course, but never so successfully as when they’re a cohesive unit.

It shouldn’t work - a disgraced admiral, a drunkard aristocrat, and a conniving pious overseer working to overthrow a corrupt illegitimate regime - but, against all odds, it does.

Without Martin, he and Havelock feel the loss as keenly as they would an amputated limb. Or, at least, Treavor does at any rate. Perhaps Havelock isn’t nearly as bothered - but no, he wouldn't pace so otherwise, driving Treavor to distraction.

His second cigarette is almost gone. Treavor eyes the glowing cherry-end mournfully. He should slow down; without knowing how long the plague will last, the blockade will be in effect indefinitely, and his supply will run out soon. It wouldn't matter really; with adequate funds one could plausibly bypass the blockade utterly but - well, Treavor doesn’t have adequate funds does he, thanks to his brothers -

It’s not something he wants to think about - but it is mildly more preferable to fretting about the third member of their little triumvirate.

It’s been hours. What’s taking Attano so long?

Treavor doesn’t notice the figure shambling towards him until he’s just a few paces away, and it’s something of a miracle Treavor doesn’t shriek loud enough to bring all of the City Watch down upon them but, thankfully, he’s recognised the figure before he can draw breath to scream.

Teague Martin’s smirk isn’t quite as wide as it should be, pulled down at the corners as it is by some invisible weight. His shoulders stoop in the same direction. Nevertheless, he cheekily plucks the cigarette from Treavor’s mouth and takes a drag, lips closing around the end like a kiss. Despite the rain, his voice is dry as ever.

“Lord Pendleton.”

Treavor draws himself upwards to his full height, clears his throat.

“Overseer Martin,” he responds, formally.

The pretense lasts for as long as it takes for Martin to expel a long, slow torrent of smoke. On his outward breath, the last of his bravado coils out with it into the damp air and Martin sways on his feet, looking more exhausted than Treavor’s ever seen before. Fighting the urge to do more, Treavor steps up and puts a hand on his shoulder - feels tremors rattling about under the damp heavy wool of Martin’s vestments - wary of the people in the pub behind him, and murmurs:

“It’s good to have you back, Teague.”

The cigarette is tossed into a nearby puddle, and Teague only makes a customary check for watching eyes before pulling Treavor down with a hand on the back of his neck, presses their brows together and sighs into the space between them.

‘Treavor.”

Treavor aches to reel him in closer, wind arms around him until they’re snug together. Teague is shorter than he is by a few inches; Treavor knows how well he’d fit in the space under his chin, how Teague’s breathing would hitch, warm and soft with relief, against the hollow of his throat. But Teague’s coat is very wet, and it would look far too obvious if they both walk in and only the front of Treavor’s frock coat is damp - the pale green fabric is lamentably treacherous in how well it shows wet. They are risking many things - he, Havelock and Martin - but this will not be one of them.

Instead, Treavor contents himself with cupping Martin’s cheeks, feeling days-old stubble rasp against his palms, and lets Martin’s grip on the back of his neck steady them both for a while.

“How did you get back?” Treavor asks after a moment, pulling back a little so he can reach for one of Martin’s hands - far too chilled to be safe - and push up the sleeve to examine skin rubbed red and raw.

“Samuel dropped me off a little ways away before going back for Corvo. I made my own way back -”

Martin is shaking properly now, wracked with cold and fatigue and likely pain he’s concealing to save face; Treavor only barely understands that impulse.

“I’ll have Wallace draw you a bath.”

Martin sounds like he’s going to protest but Treavor stops him with the shrill indignant noise he uses when he’s bloody well going to get his way. “A hot meal, a warm bath and bed, I think. You’re almost dead on your feet, Teague.”

“And will that bed be warm too, I wonder?” Martin mutters, eyelids drooping, but a suggestive smile steals across his face nevertheless. Treavor ignores the flush creeping up his own neck and wordlessly steers Martin into the warm interior of the pub; the overseer goes without complaint, too tired to do otherwise.

Havelock about-faces when they walk through the door, his mind taking a few seconds to catch up with his eyes.

“Pendleton, where -” but cuts off when he sees Martin, briefly steadied by Treavor’s hand in the middle of his back, who somehow manages a wan smile and a glib greeting.

“Admiral Havelock, good evening. I trust you’ve all been very productive while I’ve been otherwise…occupied.”

Miss Curnow may have retired to the tower and the mousy redhaired girl gone off to wherever she goes when she’s not being berated by Wallace - vanished into the dust most like - but Lydia is still at the bar, idly dragging a rag across its worn surface, and Wallace himself stands at attention as though he hasn’t moved for the entirety of his master’s absence; it’s likely he hasn’t. Good old Wallace.

Treavor knows their presence is the reason that, when Havelock steps up to Martin and embraces him, it’s brief and rough - a quick crush of chest to chest contact and a solid, manly pat on the back before retreating. Only his broad hand lingers a little longer than necessary on the overseer’s arm. His voice is unexpectedly rough under the warmth.

“Welcome back, Martin. Good to see they haven’t chopped any bits off of you.”

There’s an odd note there, like a question but also like a drop of blood in the ocean that promises a summoning of iron-strong sinew and gnashing teeth. Treavor tenses unconsciously. There will be a reckoning if Martin has been harmed -

“All extraneous bits present and accounted for,” Martin says, voice deceptively bright. Treavor catches Havelock’s eye and quirks an eyebrow. Without further ado, he orders Wallace to run a bath.

 

* * *

In an uncharacteristic show of helpfulness - as the former admiral is certain Lydia will coin it later when she relates the events to Callista and...the other one, tomorrow morning - Havelock helps Lydia scrounge up edible bits and pieces to heat up for Martin. The best they manage is potted whale meat tossed in a skillet, browned in oil with a little salt and pepper, and spread over hard black bread but Martin devours it like a starving man let loose on the finest dish at a grand banquet. Havelock feels a little better about giving Martin the ale with which he washes the meal down because while it may taste like piss it’s only due to the pitiful brewing process and not because it’s topped off with river brine. Or actual piss.

Meanwhile, Pendlton's man schlepps up and down the stairs carrying several heavy kettles of scalding hot water for the bath. Havelock can see Martin looks vaguely uncomfortable about it but the manservant just shrugs and says something about it being an honor, whatever that means; Havelock doesn’t know - Higgins is a queer one, to be sure.

When the bath is ready, and Martin drags himself upstairs to pour himself into it, Treavor brittly suggests that Lydia and Wallace do not retire to bed in the servants’ quarters until the overseer is finished so as not to disturb him. Wallace just nods as though this is expected but Lydia looks vaguely like she’s about to throttle Pendleton.

“Excellent. Splendid, m’lord. Because of course we haven’t been up since dawn this morning. And another thing, where will our esteemed guest be sleeping tonight?” she inquires sweetly enough though her teeth are bared in a frightening fashion. Treavor looks a little thrown off guard and Havelock intervenes.

“That’s none of your concern, Brooklaine. We’ll figure something out. Just stay down here for now and give the man some peace. We’ll call you up when he’s done.”

In all his time in the navy and as an acting admiral of Gristol, Havelock has never seen a face so mutinous as Lydia’s in that moment, and he’s actually a little bit relieved when Wallace takes her by the arm and leads her away - possibly to scold her for speaking so out of turn. Good, let Wallace deal with the spitfire woman; Outsider save the man’s balls if he pushes her too far.

Treavor watches the two of them go, mutters to himself and Havelock catches something that sounds suspiciously close to “weaselly,” and heads upstairs with nary another word. Havelock follows.

Treavor lingers outside his bedroom door until Havelock mounts the second floor and says something about coming to talk to him and Martin a little later, but for now he’s just got something...personal to do, yes. Personal. He ducks through the door and shuts it behind him, mind seemingly already elsewhere.

Havelock internally shrugs and goes to remove his overcoat and gun in his own room before he visits Martin in his waist-coat and shirtsleeves.

The water is still faintly steaming when he knocks and opens the door after hearing Martin’s muffled response. The room is muggy with humid heat, and the overseer is slumped in the tub up to his neck in water, head lolling against the back of it, eyes drooping shut.

“You’re just asking for an accidental drowning like that,” Havelock grumbles, shutting the lid of the privy and sitting on top of it. “Seems a shame given how Corvo was so good as to return you to us.”

Martin looks over at him and expends some effort smiling.  

“Give the man a medal,” he says and yawns. Havelock smiles in spite of himself. It’s hard to remain stoic in the presence of someone so sleepy and with such ridiculous ears. Then Martin lifts a hand out of the bathwater to use the side of the tub to push himself further upright and Havelock’s smile drops like a stone, sinks further when Martin’s collarbones breach the water’s surface.

Rings of ragged red encircle the overseer’s wrists and neck. His vestments clearly had not helped protect against the metal stocks they’d kept him in for well over a day. The skin looks raw and inflamed but it’s doubtful there’s an infection; regardless, Havelock will have Piero look at them in the morning and brew a tincture to clean them if necessary -

Then Havelock spies mottled blooms of blue and mauve on Martin’s ribs and his blood near boils, curls of red seeping in at the edges of his vision. He’s beside the tub, kneeling, in a heartbeat and the man in the bath startles when Havelock grips his chin and turns him to face him.

“Farley - what -?”

“What did they do to you?” Havelock asks, voice deadly soft, a ripple of water preceding the onslaught of a kraken from the deep. “Teague -”

“They roughed me up, a few punches here and there. No permanent damage. I’m fine.” Martin keeps his tone light but he’s watching the other man with eyes narrow and wary. Wise, given Havelock’s reputation; he’s not so dissimilar from the beasts that used to be pit against one another for sport and coin at this pub, only Farley Havelock is much, much more dangerous.

The idea of men with their hands on Martin makes him feel physically dizzy with rage. Taking a few deep breaths, Havelock releases Martin’s chin and stands.

“I’ll - I’ll go find you some clean clothes - sleepwear - Brooklaine can wash your things in the morning -”

He ignores Martin calling him back, goes to rifle through his trunk, sparse in content - where’s that bloody bottle of whale oil gone now? - but he finds a sleeping shirt and a pair of drawers Martin can wear, then spends a good few minutes sitting on the bed with his head in his hands while blood beats a war drum in his ears. Biting heat crackles through his veins, gnaws at his nerves until Havelock wants to break something, feel metal masks and bone shatter beneath his fists, flesh pulverize into raw, stringy pulp -

Dimly, the sound of Pendleton talking into his audiograph filters through the wall, something about Waverly, which doesn’t bother Havelock overmuch. Treavor has his ghouls under the bed, after all, and talking about them appears to make him feel better, just as well since Havelock has never sat particularly well with the idea of visiting violence upon a woman unless absolutely necessary -

He listens to Treavor babble on, the quavering rhythm rather than individual words, and to the rain pattering against the window - an oddly soothing combination. He concentrates on slowing his heart rate down.

After his discharge from the navy - and a dishonorable one at that, which sends a second wave of hate searing through him at the memory of Burrows smirking at him so, sending him on his way following his failed coup with a mocking farewell, using the title of “admiral” Havelock no longer has a right to - it had been a close thing as to whether he’d have swallowed the end of his service pistol that first month or not.

In the end, he hadn’t. Brooklaine had been the one to keep him from reaching for the gun - viciously pragmatic that woman, and far too grounded to allow for such a thing; it’s the reason he lets her get away with most of her sauciness - Brooklaine...and the dreams.

They started slow, perhaps one every few weeks but always the same; he’d be walking down a winding path suspended in cool blue light like the sky on a winter’s morn with two men walking at his side. One was thin and frail but for his height - he hid his lies in a cringing countenance that belied a silver tongue and drowned his sorrows in bottles so many bottles they followed them wherever they went - and the other moved like a quick, clever fox clad in Overseer grey - his face made of masks from which restless eyes missed no fleeting thing and he trailed little birds whose eyes were his also -

Soon he’d been dreaming of them every night, until he knew their faces almost better than his own - and he went out every day for the next week, feverishly searching for men with faces such as these -

And he’d found them, and they knew his face as well, had seen it in their own dreams of twilight hues.

It means something. They start a conspiracy to depose a paranoid despot and restore a motherless girl to her stolen throne, collecting pieces about them until all that’s left is the rook sitting pretty in Coldridge. And then they achieved even that, against all odds.

They did this; this is their work. Havelock feels an absurd swell of pride knowing they’d done right by bringing the former Lord Protector into their fold - well, not their innermost fold but that doesn’t even bear thinking about - especially now that he’s proved his mettle and rescued Martin from the clutches of those that would have branded him and left him to rot with the rest of Dunwall’s filth.

Havelock remembers the clothes for Martin and gathers them up, along with a towel, and returns to where Martin is still bathing and has managed not to fall asleep. They talk quietly, Havelock bringing Martin up to speed on all that has happened in his absence, until the bathwater runs tepid.

 

* * *

 

The bath has soaked much of the bone-chilling ache from his limbs; Teague feels much better, clad in a pair of borrowed drawers and a shirt much too big for him, cocooned in the tangible warmth seeping into Havelock’s room from the lit cast-iron stove. He sits on Havelock’s bed, one leg stretched out, and the other one drawn up under his chin, while Havelock sits behind him, firmly presses his overlarge fingers into the knotted mass of muscle that are Teague's shoulders.

The rain now pounds down outside and he’s mildly worried for the boatman and their pet assassin still not returned from the Distillery District. Teague’s no sailor, not truly, but he’s been on ships before, has seen that the sea is a tempestuous madam indeed, and knows that a river as large as the Wrenhaven is bound to suffer no fools gladly in dreadful weather, especially not so close to the end of Nets. When he voices these concerns to Havelock, he too frowns but reasons that Samuel knows the Wrenhaven like the lines on his palm and will have sheltered the two of them adequately enough before they will return in the morning during kinder weather.

Treavor has abandoned his audiograph and is standing over by Havelock’s desk, pouring generous measures - at least two and a half fingers each - of something amber into three glass tumblers. He manages by virtue of his long spindly fingers to bring them over all at once without aid of a tray and hands Martin the glass which appears to have a hair’s breadth more liquid than the other two. Havelock accepts his proffered tumbler with one hand, the other still intent on the knots in the overseer’s shoulder.

As Treavor perches decorously on the edge of the bed by his knee, Martin breathes in over the glass, takes a sip expecting Old Dunwall but is surprised when rich, peaty Morlish whiskey slides over his tongue and trails fire and woodsmoke all at once down his throat. It’s glorious and Martin hasn’t had any of its like in, well, ever.

“What is this?” he gasps.

“Fenglidditch, single malt, aged fifty years,” Treavor recites as he tips back a healthy slug of liquor; Martin could almost weep. Ignorant of the brief anguish he has caused, Pendleton idly stares into the glass’ golden depths and smirks, teeth showing at the edges like the snarl of an animal. “From my brothers’ stores. Obscenely expensive. Cost them a small fortune for just one bottle. They will be particularly displeased when they discover it missing.”

Havelock rumbles with a laugh and even Martin can’t hold back a properly amused smile despite being privately appalled at how Treavor is clearly not appreciating this drink for what it is.

Then again, when is Treavor anything other than indecently irreverent about his liquor; it’s all the more apparent when he finishes the whiskey in another gulp or two then sits, quietly, carefully not touching anything though his hand lies a little conspicuously, palm-up, on his thigh.

Martin feels very warm. Warm from the room, warm from Havelock’s hands kneading the tension out of him, and especially warm from the whiskey; it’s not just the taste of it settling like hearth-fire in his belly that’s bringing heat to his cheeks but rather knowing that Treavor Pendleton, at some point, took not only great pleasure but great personal risk snatching this bottle from under his brothers’ noses - which doesn’t make any sense because Treavor isn’t even all that fond of whiskey, especially not at the risk of grievous bodily harm - squirreled it away to the Hound Pits pub and, instead of drinking it all at once, saved it for all three of them.

It’s this that makes him reach for Treavor’s hand, clasp it, and bring it to his lips. After, he only has to pull once, and lightly, before Treavor comes to him just as easily and kisses him properly.

Havelock’s hands halt what they’re doing, both sliding from Martin’s shoulders to bracket the kissing couple practically in his lap, and his appreciative hum is low and dark like silt rolling along the bottom of the Wrenhaven. It sends filthy shivers running up Martin’s spine and he involuntarily parts his lips in a groan. Treavor - ever the opportunist - licks into his mouth, strokes with unbelievable boldness over Martin’s tongue. He pulls away scant millimetres, eyelids lowered, to murmur:

“There’s more in the bottle, Teague, if you just want to swallow all that right now -”

The word choice is deliberate if the inflection in Treavor’s voice is anything to go by and Martin disgusts himself with how quickly he complies, knocking back the whole glass of seriously decadent whiskey without so much as a second thought. It burns on the way down, his gluttonous shame fast-following into oblivion, as Martin hauls Treavor forward again by his cravat - and Bless the Scriptures he’s removed that ridiculous frock coat of his - to swallow the aristocrat’s self-satisfied noises he’s making.

Martin doesn’t know what Farley’s done with his drink, whether he’s also knocked it back or just set it aside, but all he can feel is a set of solid hands reacquainting themselves with his waist, careful of the patchwork of bruises here and there. Keeping a hand twisted in Treavor’s clothes, making sure he stays close, Martin breaks away and turns his head until Havelock can stake his own claim on the overseer’s mouth. Treavor, meanwhile, goes for the exposed pulse in his neck - sucks a much sweeter bruise into the skin than has been left on him over the last few days - follows it down to where where the stocks bit into him, laves the tender red flesh with his tongue until Martin tries to arch off the bed but is stopped by Havelock’s immovable grip on his hips.

This is not the first time they’ve done this. Not at all; it’s ludicrous to think that they wouldn’t have come to it before too long. It’s not so strange that once they find themselves all lying in this bed they’ve made together - considering how their hands are all equally stained with treason - that they start to fool around in it.

Pendleton’s manor had been a very convenient place to meet covertly preceding their springing of the former Lord Protector from Coldridge - the Old Port District was being purged of residents thanks to the plague evacuations and there was nowhere at the Abbey safe from the all-knowing Campbell.

When the twins were away, which was suspiciously often and for long bouts of time, Treavor snuck them in via a servant’s entrance. He dismissed any watchful eyes and ears for the night, claiming it as a pre-Fugue Feast treat, but retained the manservant who would look on as though without eyes and ears but Teague knew better. He’d wanted Higgins gone, still does - he’s not sure why but he’s never really liked the tall gaunt man who acts like he’s the youngest Pendleton’s keeper - and Havelock agreed, still agrees, with him but Treavor would hear none of it. Still won’t.

But Treavor had gladly allowed Teague free reign of his brother’s apartments in the grand house, deft fingers and flinty eyes seeking to exact the information they didn’t have but desperately needed as though with a surgeon’s scalpels. It had to be Teague. He was a highwayman once; it’s a risky profession with little to no pay off unless you’re good at it.

Which Teague hadn’t been - very good, that is, which is why he’s no longer a highwayman - but he had been good enough that it made his teeth ache with frustration when he couldn’t fucking find a single incriminating thing even though Treavor swore on anything and everything they asked that his brothers were involved with Burrows somehow.

Disillusioned and more than disappointed, they’d retired to the drawing room that night and Teague had allowed himself to be free of his own self-restraint for just the night - or so he’d thought - and drank down a good few bottles of wine until Havelock and Pendleton returned to some semblance of good temper.

He’d left for five minutes - five minutes, damn it - to relieve himself, and stumbled back into the room to find Pendleton in Havelock’s lap on the chaise longue, clothes in disarray, the admiral’s hand between the aristocrat’s legs. Treavor had pulled their mouths apart with an obscenely wet noise, heaved for breath, and had beckoned to Teague standing stock still in the doorway, the Sixth screaming in his head and his own conscience trying to pull itself together.

He’d ended up holding Treavor down on the fine Tyvian carpet, arms above his head with one hand, other hand caressing over his pale throat and kissing him quiet while Havelock fucked into Treavor relentlessly. Afterwards, Treavor proved himself unbelievably persuadable and subservient, had taken Teague in his mouth far too eagerly to possibly be appropriate for a man of his status, brought Teague to completion before finally his own need was attended to - Treavor Pendleton, for a noble, is appallingly ready to do anything to please, as he’s shown many a time since that night.

Martin used to feel guilty about the whole thing; now, he’s very much past that nonsense.

Any moment they have they take. In between plotting and planning and scheming, they’re together and “strengthening bonds of good will” as Havelock puts it with a wry twist of his mouth, which makes Treavor dramatically roll his eyes - and by the Void he’s a snarky little shit-mouthed prick, bitter and snide, but Teague actually really enjoys that about Pendleton when they’re not at one another’s throats over the Scriptures or some other petty thing they can’t seem to not argue about -

Well, it’s not like there aren’t times when they almost can’t stand one another and he and Pendleton argue, spitting spite like venom, until Havelock growls like a hound and threatens to bash their heads together, and then they turn on him, united in ire against a man who’d no sooner wear down than cliff buffeted by the sea, a man who then goes dark-eyed with blood-lust and bares shark-teeth. Havelock is a force of nature in and of himself, and woe betide anyone who has to change his mind. If Treavor is bitter, Havelock is a sour old bastard, with a pit of darkness at his core which reeks of old blood and old bones, seethes with something best kept out of the light.

So yes, there are times he’d sooner murder the men he’d dreamed about for so long than work with them to restore the order of things but, when it all comes down to it, there’s still a wire-bright bond tied to his ribs and attached to theirs and it pulls him irrevocably to them, to the point where he’s willing to forsake his scriptures and yet can still find it in himself to forgive himself for possibly tainting his soul even though its been his driving force to cleanse it for years -

He’d kept that in mind while shivering in the stocks under rainfall.

It had helped - when the rats had been snuffling around his feet, their teeth sharp even through the leather of his boots; when he considered the reek of charred flesh as they put the brand to his face - to remember their rampant sexual escapades, the rarer moments of tenderness, shared amusement and gentler kisses and touches.

It had helped to remember Havelock’s gruff laughter, the way he tended to wax poetic between long periods of silence, his smell of smoke and whiskey and salt-air as warm and heavy as a tangible touch, and Pendleton, his witty little remarks and the way his whole face would brighten when met with some favourable response and how he was usually so careful not to touch, no matter how drunk he got, until pulled into some embrace into which he’ll burrow closer.

Then Jasper, that rat bastard, had come to Teague to torment him, words supercilious and mocking dripping from his tongue, threatening the Heretic’s Brand and worse, mocking Martin’s abandonment at the hands of his faceless comrades and why doesn’t he _simply give them up, they left you here to rot after all_ \- the doubts had plagued him until he’d turned his face away to hide the fury-hot tears sliding down his cheeks amongst the rain.

Teague feels ill at the very thought and of course he should have known right down to his soul that these two wouldn’t leave him to languish in the Abbey’s claws, should have known it long before he heard Corvo choking Jasper unconscious and dropping his limp form onto the cobblestones.

He tightens his grip on Farley’s arm around his chest, curls his fingers a little more desperately in Treavor’s hair, kisses them both with frantic intensity until little gasps are bleeding out of him every time he parts from their mouths.

And perhaps the two of them pick up on his urgency because the two of them press closer, hold him a little too tight for comfort. Farley puts a hand atop his beating heart, stubble brushing coarse over the nape of his neck; Treavor holds his hand between gentle fingers and kisses the welts on his wrists. Their attentions are oddly slow and measured, as though weighed with some painful imagining.

Instantly, Martin attempts to press words into their skin with his mouth, his fingers, the motion of his body - _I’m here. I’m alright. I’m here. I’m back. I’m safe_.

Treavor climbs into his lap, presses close, Havelock’s chest is flush against his back, thighs solid on either side of him.

 _We know_ **_._ **


End file.
